Clara's house is a little gem. Everything is spotless and perfectly tidy. On the day of our visit, her son, Jesús, is responsible for making sure everything smells fresh. As he tells us with a proud smile, “I'm the one who cleaned up." In the apartment, located on the first floor of a building in Côte-des-Neiges, there is little furniture, but just enough for us to sit down and enjoy a coffee that Clara has prepared as soon as we arrive. With her big smile contrasting with her dark circles, she exudes something sweet and overflowing with cordiality.
She and her son arrived in Canada on May 30, 2024 from Guanajuato, Mexico, leaving behind a large family. Clara and her husband of 19 years have five children, but only Clara and Jesus were able to make the trip to Montreal.
Jesús, aged 18, has a complex medical condition - spina bifida and hydrocephalus - which prevents him from moving from the waist down. He is totally dependent on his mother for basic care, although this doesn't prevent her from lending a hand to keep the house spotless.
Clara can also count on the support of a network of contacts she has built up in less than a year in Montreal. Friends and neighbors help her in her dealings with Jesús and assist her if she has to leave the house for a longer period than usual. For both her and Jesús, the community has become indispensable.
From shopkeepers to asylum seekers
We are - or rather, we were - shopkeepers,” explains Clara. We had a business for 17 years: a taco stand that supported us for a long time, as well as managing Jesús' illness,” she says with deep nostalgia as she recalls what her life was like before she and her eldest son became asylum seekers in Canada.
“But in February [2024], they started asking us for money so we could keep selling our tacos,” she continues.
This form of extortion - called el cobro de plaza, but also known as vacuna or cobrar piso - involves demanding money from shopkeepers and entrepreneurs on a recurring basis. In Guanajuato, one of Mexico's most violent cities, this type of mischief is perpetrated by criminal organizations linked to the drug cartels.
“They started by asking us for 500 pesos a day (about $35). To give you an idea, we were selling each taco for 13 pesos (about $0.90). I know that doesn't sound like a lot of money, but you have to consider that we were living off what we were selling. Having someone at home with a chronic illness, who requires a lot of medication, diapers and appointments with specialists, complicates everything,” says Clara.
The criminals soon doubled their demand, asking for 1,000 pesos a day ($70). “On a good day, we'd manage to sell for around 1,400 pesos ($98). Then, when they asked us for more money, we started borrowing.”
This extortion, the plaza, was not the only reason Clara closed her taco stand and immigrated to Canada with Jesús. The threats were growing more serious, and traumas from the past, including the murder of her sister-in-law four years ago and that of the mother of a classmate of one of her children, resurfaced, leading her to make the difficult decision to pack two backpacks and set off with her eldest son in search of unfamiliar territory where they would be safer.
“We knew that at some point we wouldn't be able to afford them, and that we'd end up like my sister-in-law... That's when I said, 'Let's leave for Canada!” she recounts, clasping her hands.
Reports on violence in Mexico confirm what Clara is talking about. According to the Index of Peace in Mexico, compiled by the Institute for Economy and Peace, the rate of activity perpetrated by organized crime in Guanajuato has increased by 632% over the last eight years. In January 2025 alone, the Secretariat of Citizen Security and Protection recorded more than 216 homicides in the city.
“We come from a place where people kill for free. Yes, it's where we grew up and lived for many years. We even know our extortionists... But everything has changed. Now the cartels recruit kids. Chamaquitos**... They're getting younger and younger,” Clara laments.
A safe place to live
Clara's original plan was to immigrate to Canada with her entire family. This was not possible because only she and Jesús had U.S. visas, with Jesús receiving treatment for his medical condition in Chicago.
It should also be remembered that at the end of February 2024, the Canadian government reinstated the requirement for Mexicans wishing to visit the country to hold a visa. The regulations in place, however, allow Mexicans with U.S. visas to travel to Canada simply by obtaining an Electronic Travel Authorization (ETA).
Clara and Jesús arrived at Montreal's Trudeau airport in May 2024 with $200 in their pockets - raised by pawning what little money they had - and two backpacks. She vividly remembers that it was still dark, that she had trouble communicating with the immigration officers and that, much to her surprise, she turned out to be stronger than she thought she was.
“I was very scared when we arrived. [The immigration officers] asked me what I was doing in Montreal, if I knew anyone, how much money I had and where I was going to spend the night. They gave me a piece of paper with an address and told me to go. I said I'd come to seek refuge,” she recounts.
After this first stage of migration, “I tried to be strong, but I asked myself: 'And now, what do we do? Where are we going?” she continues.
“I saw people sleeping at the airport, so I thought that was what we could do. Then a man came up to me and spoke to me in English. He was a cab driver. I showed him the paper the agent had given me and told him I only had $200. He said he'd give me a ride, and that's when I found all my strength, because I managed to carry Jesús, who's already an adult, and get him into the car. That's when our adventure began.”
Starting to create a community
The next day, after spending the night in a meeting room in a place whose name escapes Clara, she and Jesús were able to settle into a hotel room and receive help from a Praida social worker.
With the help of translators and the $120 she had left after paying for the cab that took her from the airport, she managed to get a cell phone number and purchase essential items, such as diapers for her son.
Clara gradually overcame her fear. She soon began looking for resources for asylum seekers. She managed to get help from INICI, an organization providing assistance to new arrivals.
With Praida, she began to understand her rights as an asylum seeker, while learning how to find her way around the city by public transport. “Praida gave me two OPUS cards, and that's how we got around Montreal,” she says proudly. She and her son also started receiving social assistance: $820 each.
Clara and Jesús' first months in Montreal were a roller-coaster ride. Although it felt like everything was changing, her heart and mind were still in Mexico, as her four other children, aged 3, 8, 11 and 16, and her husband were experiencing extreme hardship trying to escape the violence in Mexico.
“They've been in several cities, from León to Comanja de Corona, via Mexico City and Jalisco. They moved constantly, with the help of contacts and loans. They suffered a lot, went hungry and often lacked a proper place to sleep,” she explains, without giving any further details for fear of being found out.
But Clara's constant anxiety didn't stop her from seeking help in Montreal. Immigration officials told her that she and her son had to leave the hotel by July 10. With this deadline in mind, she began searching the city for an apartment.
If for an asylum seeker it's complicated to find a place to live due to the requirements imposed in the midst of a housing crisis - which politicians have tried to blame on immigrants - for Clara, the difficulty was double, as Jesús' special needs made many of the options found impractical.
Another social worker, this time from Aide aux immigrants à Montréal (AIEM ), joined her housing search and found a basement apartment with ramp access. On July 8, one month and eight days after arriving in Montreal, Clara and Jesús moved into their first apartment, in Mercier-Est.
The apartment was fine,” Clara explains, ‘but it wasn't adapted to Jesús’ needs. The bathroom, for example, was inaccessible to him.
At the same time, Clara looked for ways to reunite her family in Canada. “I contacted a lawyer, whom a new friend helped me pay. He explained that the process could take five to six years, even if efforts were being made to speed things up,” she laments. But she immediately regained her optimism. “Hope is the last thing you lose,” she reminds us.
Settled in and hopeful, but with a void
Clara's drive is undeniable. Like so many asylum seekers, she finds strength in necessity. Although she hasn't yet started looking for work, she has begun the process of arranging for her son to receive the medical care he needs in Montreal. She hopes to be able to work once these steps have progressed sufficiently.
Now based in Côte-des-Neiges, she is closer to the Montreal General Hospital, which makes it easier to book appointments. At home, workers from the CLSC come to help her bathe Jesús.
“Plus, I have the good company of neighbors, including Mexican families, who have helped me find a sense of belonging and offered support,” she points out, adding that she has seen ”that there is mutual help between immigrants - we exchange support and contacts to overcome difficulties.”
With the help of the community network she had built up, Clara organized a traditional Mexican pozole to raise funds to buy Jesús a new wheelchair. Although the amount raised wasn't as high as she'd hoped, she appreciates the neighborliness and sense of community with those around her.
Jesús is also making good progress in adapting to life in Montreal. Like his mother, the young man - who always has a radiant smile on his face - is excited at the prospect of soon starting to study French in a class adapted for people with special needs. He was due to start francization classes the week of February 10, but Montreal's historic snowfalls have delayed his entry into the classroom. “It's very complicated because of the wheelchair,” says his mother.
Back in Mexico, things aren't getting any better for Clara's family. Her husband recently suffered from colitis and had to be hospitalized, while the children were looking for ways to cope with the absence of their mother and older brother.
“The eight-year-old recently told me she didn't want to grow up because, by the time she sees me again, she'll already be a teenager. I told her not to see it that way, to be patient and to pray to God that it will all pass quickly. She cries a lot. Then I tell her a story and she falls asleep,” she says in a broken voice.
“Sometimes I wonder if it's all really worth it. I feel guilty, because we're in a comfortable and, above all, safe place, while they continue to suffer out there. Two weeks ago, they found the head and body of a friend who worked near our taco stand. All this violence continues, while the cartels recruit young people. My children tell me they don't want to stay in Mexico... That's the hard part.”
Despite so many challenges and difficulties, Clara maintains a positive, even grateful attitude. She has no idea when she'll hear back from Immigration Canada about her and her son's refugee claim, but she feels supported by her community. A strength that drives her forward with the hope of soon being able to embrace her husband and four other children.
* First name has been changed at the request of the interviewee.
** “Chamaquito” is a term used in some Latin American countries, particularly Mexico, to refer to a child or teenager.